


In Space No-One Can Hear You...

by euromagpie



Category: Person of Interest (TV), Star Trek
Genre: F/F, Gen, alien races ahoy, drama mystery intrigue OH MYYYY, please captain not in front of the klingons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-09-02 05:32:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8652799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euromagpie/pseuds/euromagpie
Summary: ...softly whisper "what the fuck".The adventures of the USS Ernest Thornhill, a new ship with a new crew; it heads out into space, only to be re-directed on orders of the high-ups. But a rescue mission turns out to be anything but simple when black-ops attempt to hijack the operation. Secrets hidden among the lowest ranks are forcibly dragged to light when a simple engineering lieutenant attracts the attention of Section 31.





	

Reese was just about falling asleep in the captain’s chair when salvation came in the form of the comm. line bleeping. From her console, Zoe turned, hand to her ear.

“It’s Starfleet Command, captain, on line one.”

“On screen.”

All the bridge officers straightened from their customary ‘at-ease’ slouch, as Vice Admiral Donnelly’s face filled the screen. The harsh lines of his face and receding hairline always put Reese in the mind of an elderly crow, or maybe a vulture. His piercing eyes immediately fixed Reese with his usual ‘I don’t like you, but god help us you’re the best we’ve got’ sneer of contempt.

“Captain.” He greeted shortly.

In rebellion, Reese relaxed further into his comfy seat, a small smirk on his face.

“Vice Admiral Donnelly.” He returned, with an almost-respectful nod of his head. Donnelly’s eyes narrowed in warning – instead of replying, he turned his head to Commander Carter, his favourite member of the crew.

“Commander – you have new orders.” He said, as Joss stood to attention beside her captain. Her brows furrowed.

“With all due respect, Vice Admiral, we were promised a fortnight’s shore leave after the last mission. The last psych-evals strongly support the need too.”

Reese leaned his chin on one hand, observing the metaphorical ping-pong match between the two Starfleet officers. Sure, technically he was the captain, but he disliked Donnelly as much as the Vice Admiral disliked him, so the less they had to interact, the better. Instead, he let Joss have at the brass; in the end, she was a lot better at officer-wrangling than he was anyway.

Funny, Donnelly looked almost apologetic.

“Be that as it may, this is an urgent mission. I’m afraid the USS _Ernest Thornhill_ is the only ship of appropriate calibre close enough to be of help.”

“Close enough to what?” The wording immediately caught Reese’s attention, and he addressed Donnelly before Joss could get another word in. In return, he got an annoyed glance shot his way from Donnelly. In his office, Donnelly pressed a few buttons.

“Your orders have been sent. It is your prerogative, Captain, how much you tell your crew. I will only wish you this; good luck. Don’t start a war. Carter.” He nodded to Joss in closure – which she returned – before he ended the transmission.

Before Reese could ask, a yeoman – a young man called Laskey – was already holding out a PADD for him. He took it and scrolled through his mission orders. To his crew, Reese’s features were like stone; only Joss could see the small crease between his eyebrows that indicated he was worried. Abruptly, he stood.

“Switch out – senior staff meeting in the briefing room, five minutes.” He ordered, before striding off the bridge, leaving the senior staff to stare at each other, making silent, exaggerated faces to indicate ‘I dunno either’ to one another. Joss glanced over at Zoe.

Zoe just shrugged.

 

*

 

Five minutes later, the senior staff was assembled, seated around a long table in the briefing room. At the head sat John Reese, captain of the USS _Ernest Thornhill_. Nobody knew what ship he’d been stationed on before, and the one time Joss had tried to dig deeper into his background, she’d been greeted with wall upon wall of ‘CLASSIFIED’ warnings.

At the front of the room, before the large, wall-mounted screen, stood Commander Jocelyn Carter, First Officer and Science Officer. She had served on five different ships before her current assignment, steadily working her way up. Four of those ships had been nacelle-deep in combat with Klingon ships. Two of them were destroyed, with Joss only barely escaping with her life. Her quick-thinking and dedication had saved the lives of many men and women and non-gendered beings, making her a highly decorated officer, having received the Legion of Honour medal, the Pentares Ribbon of Commendation, the Starfleet Decoration for Gallantry and the Starfleet medal of honour. A lot of battleships had tried to snap her up for new assignments, but Joss had had enough of combat – she wanted something different; the thrill of exploration and First Contact had made her accept the offer for the _Thornhill_.

On Reese’s right sat the Chief Medical Officer, an Andorian called Sameen Shaw, feet on the table and using a lab-coat as a large napkin as she snacked on food-cubes from the replicator. Originally, Shaw had been on the Command track, and one of the youngest captains in Starfleet. That was, until her command of the USS _Light Brigade_ , where, under false orders, her mission had resulted in the death of all but six of the ship’s crew. She had been given the Starfleet Medal of Valour, but had dropped off Starfleet’s radar for three years, before turning up again at Starfleet Academy, studying to become a Medical Officer. While emotionally withdrawn, her intelligence (and general respect for her previous accomplishments and commands) allowed her to climb the ladder of the ranks quickly. Despite this, she was unofficially kicked-off of her previous posting, the Bradbury-class vessel the USS _Indigo Five_ for causing upset amongst delicate-minded Ambassadors being transported. Starfleet was still trying to detangle the cultural-mess she’d instigated by the time the assignment came through for her posting aboard the _Thornhill_.

Beside Sameen – who was trying to ignore her staring – lounged the Head of Engineering, swinging the chair from side to side and watching Sameen eat with a small smile on her lips. Occasionally Shaw would glare at her, to which she’d only lean over and wipe a piece of food off her cheek. She was Lieutenant Commander Samantha Root. She was a Trill, and most of her lives had been spent on board different Starships, all the way to the beginning of the Federation in 2161. Her tone of voice was lyrical but also mostly patronising; her great wealth of knowledge often made her treat even adults like ignorant children. Her current host had been a child-prodigy, practically breezing through the Trill training – there had been initial concerns among the Trill Evaluation Board that she was mentally unstable, but the worries eased. She and her symbiont, Root, had taken to each other like Vulcans to logic; they were now as one, albeit one who liked machinery over most organic creatures. Starfleet had put up with quite a bit of subordination from her because, quite frankly, she excelled in her field.

The navigator, a human called Leon Tao, was trying to put the moves on the senior helmsman, the Vulcan Harper Rose, and was failing quite spectacularly. Both were newly recruited cadets – to most, if they were to check Harper Rose’s file, there would be little of interest to be seen. Reese, however, knew differently – Rose shared the blood of not only Vulcans, but also Romulans. Having been raised by her mother alone, she had no knowledge of her half-ancestry, which was the only reason Starfleet had allowed her entry into the Academy. The _Thornhill_ was one of only a few ships willing to give her a chance.

Their back-and-fro was providing entertainment to the sniggering Tellarite Security Chief, Lionel Fusco, who was sipping occasionally from his drink and consuming pureed Earth fruits, which he much preferred to the Tellarite dishes programmed into the replicator. Fusco had served on one other ship previously, the USS _Oyster Bay_. In typical Tellarite fashion, he was argumentative and insulting, but underneath his bluster and grousing he was incredibly loyal. He was still finding his feet after the mysterious transfer from the _Oyster Bay_ ; there had been an incident, a murder of fellow crew-member Stills, in which Fusco had been implicated – his only savour being the testimony of Carter, whom he’d been talking with via a viewer at the time of the murder. Even following being cleared of all charges, the _Oyster Bay_ had become an unfriendly place for him, and Carter had pulled a few strings to get him assigned to the _Thornhill_. He and Carter were close friends now although some suspicions had followed him on board – a few of the ship’s crew were still nervous and withdrawn around him. He didn’t particularly care; as long as he had a few friends to completely depend on, he was good.

The only person in the room ready to pay attention, it seemed, was the senior Communications Officer, Zoe Morgan, distinguished from humans by the Risian emblem on her forehead. The USS _Thornhill_ was the first ship she had ever been assigned on; most of her career had been spent hopping from starbase to starbase, working as a translator as well as odds-and-ends jobs that needed doing. She had been present for six First Contact procedures, with cultures whose languages the Universal Translator couldn’t decipher. She could read people as easily as languages, making her a powerful diplomat as well as Communicator. Reese had a close friendship with her, and often was less than rigid with Starfleet regulations when Zoe said she would need to bend them a bit to resolve a situation (not that any of the _Thornhill_ crew were exactly sticklers for rules). While she was well respected in her own career circle, the assignment to the _Thornhill_ came as a surprise to her – she had been in the middle of a negotiation with two conflicting species having colonised the same planet just on different hemispheres when the order had come in. Thankfully, Zoe was anything but flexible, and with her easy manner and fast-formed friendship she had quickly fit in with the crew.

Completing the motley crew was their final member, curled up on a cushion beside the captain’s chair; a large Earth dog, a Belgian Malinois called Bear. He was military trained, as Reese would insist on telling everybody, but mostly he just slept or sat on the Bridge, letting himself get doted on. Shaw was more often on the Bridge than was appropriate for the Chief Medical Officer, but whenever questioned, she simply responded that she was there for the dog. Bear also seemed to have made a game of scaring Leon, gnawing at his hand whenever the navigator let it dangle off the console (Leon had the suspicion Reese might have trained him to do that ever since the Captain told him off for slacking. Bear always looked awfully pleased with himself whenever Leon snatched his hands away).

 

*

 

Carter eventually gave up on trying to wait out the rabble, and put two fingers to her mouth to give a sharp whistle. Fusco stopped sniggering, Leon stopped badgering Harper (as much) and Shaw kept on doing exactly what she had been doing.

It was probably the best Carter was going to get.

With a click, the blueprints of a ship came up on the wall-viewer beside her, alongside a stellar map and scrolling text beside it.

“As most of you know, we received new orders form Starfleet Command today,” Carter began, “I know the crew were looking forward to their shore-leave, but we’re needed to perform a rescue.”

Eyebrows shot up around the table.

“This,” she gestured to the blueprint, “is the USS _Legacy_ , one of 150 ships built by Starfleet for Doctors Without Stellar Borders. For the past four years, the _Legacy_ , along with seven others, has been involved in crisis control on the planet Ipsu. Under quarantine, nobody went into or out of orbit around the planet. Six months ago, a cure was implemented. The quarantine was lifted on the medical ships and those stationed there started to leave. The _Legacy_ was one of the last to leave, the doctors dealing with a lot of the fallout the planet-wide plague had caused. Yesterday, the _Legacy_ was on its way to Starbase 151, passing through the Lethe Nebula when they crossed paths with a Klingon cruiser. No contact has been made by then, but neither has there been a distress-call. Starfleet command wants us to go in there and rescue the crew.”

There was silence for a moment before Shaw audibly chewed and swallowed, wiping her fingers on the lab-coat across her lap.

“What sort of weapons do they have?” She asked.

“No weapons. Their ship was medical and medical only. It came with a complement of 20 independent security officers, but half of them either chose to leave before the quarantine came down, or died of the plague. We can’t expect any help from that direction.”

“If the Klingons’ve got them, they’re as good as dead. They’re sending us in as a cleaning crew?” Fusco asked in disbelief. Carter fixed him with a Look.

“Orders are for rescue, not clean-up. Command has reason to believe the crew of the _Legacy_ is still alive. The captain of the cruiser is Elias.”

The crew glanced over at John, whose face was blank. Carter herself didn’t look happy – she’d had dealings with the Klingon captain before, and he had an unusual amount of charm for a Klingon. He was an expert at diversion and misdirection and frankly, he made her very uncomfortable. He rolled with the punches too much. Most Klingons, Carter could understand. Elias, on the other hand? She never could figure out what he was about to do next. Still, Command had a point; if Elias had a conflict with the _Legacy_ , it was for a purpose other than destruction. Elias didn’t do purposeless violence in the first place, but on a medical ship of all things? There was more to this than some random run-in.

 

*

 

Once they’d all returned to their posts, the atmosphere on the bridge was tense. Shaw had insisted on being up there, perching on the edge of the science console, arms folded and with a grim expression on her face. Reese could relate – there was something nebulous (pardon the pun) and ‘Other’ about this assignment. On the surface it was a simple rescue mission, but Reese knew when he wasn’t being told the whole truth. His bullshit radar was finely tuned and currently it was telling him there was something he wasn’t being told about this situation. He hated going in blind, but he would bet Shaw hated it more.

 

*

 

Ten minutes to the nebula, Fusco’s weapons console went up in sparks. Fusco had gone toppling, yelling as he batted the small fire that has sprung up on his gold sleeve, as Shaw responded with extinguishing fluid thrown on the console, immediately dousing the danger. Fusco came up scowling, newly singed as Shaw prodded the console.

“I’m _fine_ , thanks for asking.” He grumbled. Shaw took his arm; he hissed and she prodded the wound extra hard.

“Don’t be such a human,” she muttered, “you’re fine. A Bit singed, but it’ll heal on its own. Give it a day or so, keep it dry.”

“Keep it crispy more like.” Fusco groused, tugging his sleeve down. The crew went back to their posts. They’d been momentarily distracted by the fuss around Fusco, but now they were getting closer to their destination, the tension was curtailing the usual teasing that would follow such an incident. Reese gave the Tellarite a cursory glance over before nodding to him and turning back to the front, in the usual ‘you’re not dying, so you’re fine’ way of his.

Fusco angrily stabbed the comm. button on a nearby console. Engineering came through the other line.

“Hey cocoa puffs, what’s the deal up here? I asked you fix my console two days ago!”

Root’s musical voice came through the comm., a put-out sigh on her lips.

“Honestly, Lionel, I don’t have time to run around after every one of you Command-monkeys. First it was fixing the captain’s chair, and then Sameen asked me to check up the bio-beds.” Fusco glanced sceptically at Shaw, whose face looked thunderous and looked to be battling an azure flush. One antenna twitched in irritation.

“Did she ask, or did you forcibly offer?” He asked. Another huff of exasperation came through the line. “Look, whether you’re busy painting your toenails or whatever, I’m sure both you and I would rather we have weapons to use against the Klingons, rather than defending ourselves with spit and good luck.”

“…I see your point. Still, I really am too busy right now. I’ll send you up someone.” Something like an explosion sounded in the background and Root quickly signed off the line.

Fusco tried to rescue as much from his console as possible.

 

*

 

A few tense minutes later the turbolift’s doors slid open with a faint whine, loud on the silent bridge. For wont of better things to do, the bridge crew turned to face the newcomer, a pointy-faced male Betazoid wearing antiquated eye-glasses. His calm face had looked pinched at the attention suddenly thrust upon him, but he did an admirable job of ignoring the spying eyes as he limped from the lift to Fusco’s gently smoking wreck of a console. He clucked his tongue as he looked it over, scanning an engineering tricorder over the remnants.

“I was rather sceptical when Ms Root said you people enjoy making work for us, but now I’m having my doubts.” He muttered. Behind him, Fusco hovered with an air of irritation of his own.

“Yeah well, I woulda fixed it myself, but I can just about get a tricorder to run and that’s as far as my engineering skills go. That’s what you guys are for.”

The engineer fixed Fusco with a pointed look over his eye-glasses, before turning back to the console with a dismissive look. Laboriously he got to his knees and stuck his arm up to his shoulder into the frazzled guts – he rooted around for a moment before grasping something and yanking out a seemingly random assortment of cables. The engineer worked in silence as he pulled tools from the small box he’d brought up. Efficiently, he stripped cables, twisted wires together, added solder and, one by one, lights winked to life on the top. Once, the engineer reared back as another volley of sparks erupted from the depths, but he just brushed the ash of his top and went back to work without blinking.

Occasionally he’d make another disapproving noise with his tongue.

Eventually, he sat back on his heels stiffly and used the table edge to pull himself upright. He tapped a few buttons, watching green code scroll down the screen. He input a few commands, and the left half of the console, which had been dark, lit up. With a final tap on the ‘enter’ key, he stepped back, cracking the knuckles on his right hand absently.

“The weapons commands should respond timely, but I’ve had to disable a lot of the more superfluous options in order to speed up the reaction time – your console is working at approximately 70% its normal capacity. If I had more time, I could work out the rest of the kinks properly, but since we appear to be pressed for time…” He trailed off, shooting another Look at Fusco which clearly stated ‘ _this is your fault, and if we get blown up don’t come crying to me; I’m an engineer, not a miracle-worker_ ’.

“Yeah thanks, I think I can manage pointing and shooting.” Fusco said, instead of punching him in the face. He was a good guy like that.

“You do quick work, lieutenant…” Reese was watching them from his captain’s chair, needing a distraction from the undoubtable clusterfuck of a situation they were about to barrel into. He was reaching for a name.

For a moment, it looked like the engineer was going to ignore him and just scurry back to the high-tech rabbit-burrow that was Engineering, but in the end he just packed up his tools and adjusted his eye-wear.

“Finch. Lieutenant Finch.” His eyes locked with the captain’s – his face betrayed none of the usual hero-worship that Reese had got used to awkwardly greeting. Instead, his gaze was assessing, almost clinical in its analysis.

Reese opened his mouth to make some jab at the man’s resemblance to his bird-moniker, when Harper turned from her station.

“Captain, Klingon Bird-Of-Prey at 110 – mark – 20.”

“On screen.” Reese was immediately all-business, the engineer completely forgotten. The crew were all strung tight as bow-strings, keeping their sights trained on the green winged vessel that appeared on the main viewer – it hovered like a vulture over the smaller grey-hulled Starfleet ship, the _Legacy_. There was no time for further strategy devising as Zoe noted they were being hailed.

The view of space was replaced by the bridge of the Klingon cruiser – the room was dark and smoky, doused in red and green from the lights the Klingons favoured. Klingon warriors dotted the bridge at their respective stations; a particularly wild-looking one flanked the captain’s chair, a cruel scar curving around his tanned face.

Lounging (in a manner similar to the way Reese tended towards, thought he would never admit it to himself) in the captain’s chair, with an air of total relaxation, was Elias.

Elias was rather at odds to what the average person thought of when they imagined a Klingon – his beard was neatly trimmed, and his greying hair tied back. He had a wide jaw and wide forehead with pronounced ridges, lending an almost hourglass-shape to his face. Unlike his compatriots, as he spoke, his lips showed a row of well-cared for teeth. He smiled like a shark having spotted an oblivious seal in the water.

“John. nuqneH.” Elias spoke in a welcoming tone that undermined the danger Reese knew him to be capable off. His soft tones made the hair on the back of Reese’s neck stick up.

“Elias.” He responded curtly.

Elias sighed, shaking his head in a mockery of disappointment.

“I see you’re as welcoming as ever. Very well, let’s skip the pleasantries. You want the _Legacy_ back, yes?” He made a rolling motion with his hand, like an old actor performing a theatrical bow. Or like someone trying to hurry a conversation below his notice along.

“Starfleet doesn’t take kindly to you kidnapping our people, Elias. Don’t think you can-“

“Yes, yes, I have no interest in most of the crew. You can have the ship and its plague-ridden Qa-Hom.”

Reese didn’t miss the specifier in his proposition: ‘ _Most of’_.

“What’s your game, Klingon?” He prodded.

“I surely don’t know what you’re talking about, John. I’m making you a very generous offer indeed. I know how squeamish you humans are about blood-shed. We won’t obliterate you if you take you little ship of doctors and leave.”

“We will take _all_ of the doctors.” Reese stated. There was no question, no humming or hahing. They were leaving with the entire crew – he wasn’t about to leave a man or woman or non-gendered being in the hands of a Klingon crew. They were all Federation citizens.

Elias pursed his lips, the playful expression falling off his face. His eyes turned calculating – John wasn’t fooled by his façade, not after the first time. He knew the shrewd tactician was always watching, always working even as Elias bantered small-talk between his enemies.

“Y’see, John, you can have most of your people. But we’re going to have to keep one, I’m afraid.” He snapped his fingers and a struggle was heard from the back of the bridge. A female Klingon started dragging someone to the front.

“What use could you possibly have for a simple doctor?” John was playing for time – he wasn’t really fishing for information; he knew Elias was too smart to bite.

Indeed, Elias just barked out a laugh.

“Now, you know I can’t tell you that. But know I’m not a cruel man – I’ll let your man send a final message to his family.”

Finally, the Klingon threw the prisoner to the floor in front of the captain’s chair. The human, from initial assessment, landed with a grunt on his knees, head down as he caught himself with bound hands. With a flick of his head to throw his brown hair out of his face, the man faced the screen and the crew of the _Thornhill_.

 

*

 

Reese couldn’t say he recognised the young man. The ‘human’ label was quickly revised – Betazoid, obviously, from the coal-black eyes that stared back at him. His face was what on Earth might be described as ‘Terra handsome’ – a pointed jaw, with dark stubble and symmetrical features. Reese tried to think whether he’d seen this man in any publications or news; there must be something special about him.

The man looked first at Reese, eyes betraying no recognition, before drifting to his side. Immediately, his features froze in recognition.

“Uncle Harold!”

Reese looked to his side, where the other man’s eyes had landed; the engineer, lieutenant Finch, had moved, seemingly subconsciously, closer to the screen, so Reese had a good look at Finch’s beak-like profile.

“Will; stay calm.” Finch spoke to the young man, Will. He was obviously trying to sound soothing, but he couldn’t hide the slight tremor to his voice or his hands clenching in fists at his side. For a moment Reese thought about sending the man off the bridge, but he could already tell Finch was a stubborn personality, and the last thing he wanted right now was to have a fight on the bridge.

Behind Will, Elias was watching the proceedings with a smirk.

“How touching. I find family reunions so heart-warming, don’t you Anthony?” He addressed the Klingon standing by his seat.

“Sure, boss.” Anthony replied, bemused.

“Still, tear-jerking as this is, I must hurry you along. Young Mister Ingram here can pass on his message to Uncle Harold. John, you can take the ship and its remaining crew, and my crew and I will leave you be, and take Will here for a bit of a chat. How’s that sound?”

 _Like you’re jerking us around, you prick_ , John thought. His eyes narrowed at the panicked expression that bloomed on Will’s face. Beside him, Finch turned his body to face John.

“Captain Reese, I must-“ John held up his hand to cut him off.

“I’ll give you five minutes to mull your options over, John.” Elias spoke, before barking a command. The screen went dark, taking with it the prisoner at the Klingon’s feet.

Reese rubbed a hand over his face in frustration as the quiet stretched out. The crew was very intently Not Looking At Him, which almost made him more nervous than if they just looked at him.

Correction, everyone was Not Looking At Him, apart from Finch, who was Looking At Him with an intensity that made John’s hackles rise.

“You have something to say, lieutenant?” He asked; a shade too close to snapping, apparently, as the Betazoid frowned. Every expression seemed to be telegraphed on his face, and now, Disapproval reigned.

“With all due respect, Captain Reese, I hope you’re not thinking of leaving Will behind?”

Reese was willing to deal with a lot of behaviour that skirted, or even nudged a foot slash tentacle over the line to insubordination, but only from his friends. Finch’s aura of superiority was grinding on his last nerve.

“And if I were, it would be certainly no business of yours, lieutenant. Dismissed.” Reese winced internally at how callous he sounded; normally he was very understanding when it came to family issues, or as Shaw liked to call it, he ‘rolls over at the first hint of a sob-story’. Still, it was a tense situation. He had no intentions of leaving Will Ingram behind in the hands of the enemy, but he could also do with Finch just _getting off his back_ for two minutes so he could _think_.

Reese saw Finch’s eyes narrow at his command, and he imagined him puffing up his feathers in indignation like Terran birds did. A stiff pause, before he saw Finch turn out of the corner of his eye, and heard his uneven gait limp its way to the turbolift. He imagined a cutting parting remark was on its way, when they were yet again broken up by another face appearing on the viewing screen, sans introduction.

Reese didn’t need an introduction; he recognised the stern russet ponytail and harsh lines around her mouth from the instigator behind a lot of [CLASSIFIED] cases. He straightened to attention.

“Captain Reese.” The officer greeted him, voice smooth and measured.

“Admiral Corwin. I didn’t know you were in the area.” Reese greeted her cautiously. Alicia was a human Admiral in Starfleet, on paper as it were, but he knew her for what she really was; a member of Section 31, a rather-more-than-slightly-unethical black-ops organisation inside the Federation which, to everyone but the upper _upper_ echelons of Starfleet, didn’t exist. Section 31 didn’t even exist to John Reese, even though he was forged in its fire – if pressed, he would take the organisation’s existence to his grave.

Her presence on this mission cast William Ingram’s capture further into shadows.

“Captain, you will take the Klingons’ offer; retrieve the crew of the _Legacy_ , all that are surrendered to you, as well as the ship, and escort them to Starbase 151. We will take care of William Ingram.”

 _Of course they would_. Reese didn’t trust Section 31 as far as he could throw them, but his hands were tied in this matter – pressing further into Section 31’s business would land the crew with a court-martial at best and at worst…well, best not to ponder on the ways the organisation kept their secrets underground.

Reese made to make his reply, but started: Corwin wasn’t looking at him, but _behind_ him; her face was frozen, wide eyed, like she’d seen a ghost – her Terran skin was pale and wan. Reese swung around just to catch a final glimpse of Harold Finch disappearing into the turbolift; as the doors swung shut, his face too, was strained as his eyes bored into the Admiral’s face.

The turbolift disappeared.

Before Reese could make an inquiry into why this seemed to be a normal reaction around a simple, low-grade engineer, Corwin seemed to pull herself together…mostly. She spoke to him briskly.

“Do your duty, Captain.”

Without another word, the transmission from the USS _Matsya Nyaya_ cut off. Reese was left to stare into empty space.

Carter placed a strong hand on his shoulder.

“John? Are you-“

“You heard her, Joss. We have our orders.” He said, hoarsely. He didn’t want to leave William Ingram to the Klingons, or to Section 31, or to abandon the mystery that was the Admiral’s reaction to Finch, but…

But.

But he was a Starfleet officer, and he was going to do his duty.

“Let’s rescue those doctors.”

 

*

 

Finch limped his way down to Engineering with all the determination of a Bolian faced with a line to the replicator. His brain was caught between the modes of Furious and Terrified, which apparently produced a face on him which made his fellow crewmates give him a wide berth. It garnered him rather more attention than he normally liked, but right now that was probably the least of his problems. Finch’s analytical mind broke down his problems thus:

  * William Ingram, the son of Finch’s closest, and only, true friend was currently being held by Klingons who showed no intention of releasing him.
  * William Ingram, the son of Finch’s closest, and only, true friend was currently being hunted by Section 31.
  * Section 31 had spotted him.
  * Captain Reese was being no help in any of these situations.



Finch just kept himself from grinding his teeth in frustration.

Still, the list helped somewhat. His two main problems were that Will was not on the _Thornhill_ , and that Corwin had apparently recognised him (he’d hoped adopting glasses and time would have disguised him somewhat, but trust a black-ops agent to recognise someone who should have been dead, many years after their last meeting. Typical). Between himself and Will, he knew Will’s safety was a priority, even if he hadn’t been named Will’s god-parent by Nathan and Olivia.

He carried on down to Engineering, a plan slowly unfurling in his mind.

 

 


End file.
